Try sleepin' with a broken heart
by me.fergie
Summary: SF to Alicia Keys's song. Don't own. SPOILERS FOR most episodes. John and Seb each lost somebody they loved. How do they cope? Is John maybe in danger? MorMor


**AN: **This is my first Sherlock fic. It just popped into my head. You know, plot bunnies. I didn't have a beta for this coz I don't know anybody who would be willing to proof read a Sherlock fic, so I am sorry for any errors. English isn't my native language either, but I wrote several pieces before, and I feel confident it's good enough so you guys will understand it.

**Disclaimer:  
><strong>I don't own anything in the Sherlock universe. I wish I'd own Andrew Scott though. He's such a fabulous actor. I'd even share him with you all. Also, I don't own the song, or the quote at the beginning of this fic. It all (all in bold, that is) belongs to Alicia Keys, who is the most brilliant musician of our time. I am not making any profit from this. I'm just entertaining myself and you, hopefully. So, please don't sue me.

**Spoilers**: **All Sherlock eppies**

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><p><strong>Try sleeping with a broken heart<strong>

_**There are those among us who are blessed with the power to save what is loved by another, but powerless to use this blessing for love themselves. **_

Sleep. _Sleep_. John Watson lay on his bed, looking up at the ceiling. He so wanted to sleep. But sleep had been a rare guest lately. Since the 16th of June, John had slept for... 2 hours each night. If he was lucky. Every other night he wouldn't be able to find sleep at all. And John was sure enough this night wouldn't be the exeption to the rule. He had the choice between just tossing and turning, or getting up and do... _Yeah, do what?_ Everything had lost its meaning to him the day Sherlock Holmes had lost his life. And he had lost Sherlock. Well... Sherlock had ended his life. Or so the police report said. But that was all a bunch of lies. John hadn't for a moment wavered in his opinion. Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud. He had been the real thing. More real than anybody else John had ever met. And, he knew, he _knew_ Sherlock hadn't taken his own life. Heaven knew what had happened between Sherlock and Moriarty up on the rooftop, but John _knew_ Sherlock hadn't just killed himself. He sighed and leaned against the wall next to the window of their living room, from where he could overlook Baker Street. Nights have never been darker in London, he thought. Of course, he knew that was not true. But nights just were so much fairer if you had a partner to run through the city with. John took a deep breath and scolded himself for the tears that filled his eyes. Sherlock would laughed his butt off if he could see him now. But then again, what did Sherlock know. John caught himself thinking this thought and shook his head. Of course Sherlock knew about caring. John didn't doubt for a second that Sherlock had somehow made up the whole story about Mrs Hudson being shot. All to get him away from that maniac. If only Sherlock hadn't, maybe he could have helped him. Maybe they both would have survived. And now? Moriarty was dead, Sherlock was... not here anymore. And John was alone again. And oh, how it hurt. The wound he had gotten to his shoulder was nothing against the pain he felt now. So empty. Moriarty, the bastard, this madman. He hadn't burned the heart out of Sherlock. He had burned the heart out of him, John Watson. Sherlock could have gone on without John. But John without Sherlock? Impossible. He sighed deeply again, no longer reacting to the tears that were in his eyes. Who cared anyway if he cried? Mrs Hudson, yeah. Greg? He hadn't believed in Sherlock. Anderson and Donovan had finally convinced their boss that there might have been something about Sherlock that must not be trusted. Mycroft? Mycroft... John suddenly felt anger. Why hadn't Mycroft gotten rid of Moriarty while he was in their custody? Who would have cared?

**Even if you were a million miles away  
>I could still feel you in my bed<br>Near me, touch me, feel me**

**And even at the bottom of the sea**  
><strong>I can still hear inside my head<strong>  
><strong>Telling me, touch me, feel me<strong>

Sebastian Moran would have cared. As he was sitting there on the empty stairs in the empty house opposite 221B Baker Street, holding on to his rifle, seeing John Watson leaning against the window, he knew this man hated his boss with a passion. Sebastian didn't feel hatred. A twinge of sadness, maybe. But no hatred. The plan had been different, yes, but Sebastian knew that even if it had played out like they had planned it, his boss wouldn't have lived to see another day. He would have killed himself anyway. Without Sherlock Holmes, there wasn't anybody to keep Jim entertained. And hell was full of people who could. Yet, sadness was not unfamiliar to Sebastian whenever his thoughts went to the body of Jim Moriarty, who was now lying somewhere in the morgue of St. Bart's. He had felt sadness since the day Mycroft Holmes had let Jim walk off. It was Sebastian who had tended to his boss's wounds. He was a military man, and he knew what people like those that obeyed Mycroft Holmes could do to other people. And he knew what it did to the people who were unlucky enough to fall in their hands. But there was no effect whatsoever on Jim. He had taken it all, and Seb was sure that he hadn't so much as blinked when they had beaten him. And back home, when Seb was looking after him, he had just smiled. This manic smile that made even men like Seb shiver. Jim had set out to destroy Sherlock Holmes, and preferably his brother and best friend to. And this was the moment he knew the final part of the game was on. Seb had tried to convince his boss to change the plan, just kill Sherlock off and be done with it. But to no avail. Jim had just laughed, telling him not to worry too much. Everyting would go as planned, and they'd have a nice English breakfast at the little café at the corner of Baker Street.

**And all the time you were telling me lies...**

_Lies_. John felt like the whole world was lying. All those darn news people, talking about Sherlock like he was some sort of a madman, some ruthless killer. Mycroft, who hadn't told him the truth about Moriarty. Good lord, if John had known, he could have done something. Sherlock could have done something. At least Sherlock had always been truthful. More or less. He had to chuckle when he remembered Sherlock drugging him, back in Dartmoor. Those moments after Sherlock had turned the light on in the lab, and the "hound" had disappeared... what a beautiful moment. He would cherish this moment for as long as he lived. And so many other moments. He turned away from the window and sat down in Sherlock's armchair. His hand moved slowly, as if on his own account, over to the table, and laid its fingers around the violin bow. Many other nights he had been sitting here, holding on to this piece. Why? Because it was Sherlock. Sherlock had used it so many times that John knew part of his soul was in there. It was long, with soft hair, elegant. Just like its owner had been. John had never been much of a musician. But as he sat there now, his fingers caressing the violin bow, he wished he was able to get some notes out of the violin that didn't make you want to rip your ears of. Just to hear the soothing sound of "Auld lang syne" again that Sherlock had played six months and 16 days ago. To close his eyes and pretend Sherlock was the one playing. Nobody he knew could play the violin. He just had to remember how Sherlock played it; close his eyes and remember. Like he remembered every single second he had spent with Sherlock. And go on.

**So tonight I'm gonna find a way to make it without you  
>Tonight I'm gonna find a way to make it without you<br>I'm gonna hold onto the times that we had  
>Tonight I'm gonna find a way to make it without you<strong>

Violin had never been an instrument for Jim. Sebastian had accompanied Jim to the opera once, for a concert, and Jim had grimaced at the "shrieky sound", as he had called it. Full orchestra, that was... _had been... _Jim's kind of thing. The louder, the better. Impressive stuff. And the piano. Jim had liked pianos. Seb noticed the feeling of sadness coming back, thinking of what would happen to Jim's Steinway now. Maybe he would donate it to a school. Or hey, learn to play the piano himself. Jim would be so amused. "Oh Seb," he would say, "you, play the piano? Those amazing fingers of you are made to kill, not to compose." He would have had his fun. And now, he was gone. Those beautiful brains blown out of his brilliant head. By his own hand. Seb's fingers tightened around his rifle. Such a terrible waste. Jim could have had the world at his feet, he could have ruled it, play it, manipulate it, form it just to his taste. But he had to pick up this childish feud with Sherlock Holmes. And just because Jim Moriarty hated to lose, he just shot himself. Such a fucking waste.

**Have you ever tried sleeping with a broken heart  
>Well you can try sleeping in my bed<br>Lonely, only, nobody ever shut it down like you  
>You wore the crown, you made my body feel heaven-bound<strong>

It was 4 a.m. already, John noticed. No, this would be a night with no sleep. His therapist had offered him some pills that would help him sleep. He had refused. If there was one thing worse than sitting in the living room watching time ticking away, it was sleeping, then waking up and then realize that it hat not been a dream. _Oh Sherlock_. John wasn't a wimp, but hell everybody would feel pain like that if their best friend had just died. _Best friend_. Two simple words, characterizing the relationship between him and Sherlock so well, but still so far from everything John felt for the man. He owed his life to him. Sherlock had saved him. When he had gotten home from Afghanistan, broken, a traumatised man with no idea how to go on, how to live a normal life again, Sherlock had saved him from dying inside. He had taken him in into this whirlwind that was his everyday life, and God, John had never felt more alive than during these 18 months. Without Sherlock, he would be rotting away somewhere. And now Sherlock was gone. And John was right back on his track to rotting again. Even Ella had noticed. What did she know? For all he knew, she'd never had to deal with the things that were thrown at him: bullets, mad psychopaths, liars... _Sherlock_. He bit his lip. He missed him. So badly. People had always joked about them being a couple, many had actually thought that they were. John had always been quite keen to dismiss things like this, but truth was, he had never felt for any of his (numerous) girlfriends the way he had felt for Sherlock. And he never would, that much was sure. It was more than just friendship, it was actual love. Without the relationship or anything like that. Just a deep feeling of... _Nope. The English language just doesn't have the words to describe it. Gotta live with that. _

**Why don't you hold me, need me, I thought you told me  
>You'd never leave me<strong>

Sebastian had been saved to. Jim had given him a way out of drugs and gambling. Given it wasn't the most honorable job, but it had saved his life. And cost some others. Ultimately Jim's. He should have shot that son of a bitch Sherlock when he had the opportunity. At the swimming pool. _So close._ But he had orders from Jim. And he had followed them. And now, Jim was dead. And Sherlock Holmes was. Jim had given him orders to let John Watson live if Sherlock was dead. And still he was sitting here, holding on to his rifle, ready to kill the doctor any second. Jim couldn't punish him, because Jim wasn't anymore. All that was left was the empty space in his heart where the little maniac used to be. Where he should be right now. And since Sherlock was dead, Watson was the one deserving the bullet. He looked up to the sky. It was so dark. If he shot Watson now, nobody would notice. Nobody would see him, because Seb had learned to be part of the darkness.

**Looking in the sky I can see your face  
>And I knew right where I'd fit in<br>Take me, make me **

John looked away from the skies. The darkness got to him. He knew there were people outside. He was sure some of them wanted his life. But did he care? How many would miss him? How many would he miss? His sister, yes. Mrs Hudson, of course. Lestrade and Mycroft? Not so much. They had failed. John was loyal to the bone, and they had distrusted Sherlock. If he could, he would punch them, just as he had punched Greg's boss. Gosh, that had felt good! This man was talking shit about Sherlock? No way! John had never enjoyed throwing a punch so much than at this particular moment. And the moment after that. Him and Sherlock, both in the hands of police. Partners in crime. John lowered his head and bit his lower lip. _This is a nightmare. Only worse. Because it's true. Oh Sherlock, I miss you so much. _It hurt so much, thinking that he would never hear Sherlock's voice again, smell his scent, find bodyparts in the fridge... never be with him again. Never share this unique connection again. John got up again and moved towards the window. _If only you could wave at me from up there. I'm dead sure you didn't follow the little maniac down to hell. Although, you would. You ran towards him. Like two poles being attracted by each other, you and Moriarty were attracted to each other. I couldn't stop you. Not that I wanted to. We both wanted to get rid of him. And your brother was so close. Oh Sherlock... _John opened the window and took a deep breath him. For a second there he thought that even the air smelled like Sherlock. It made him smile. He looked up at the sky. _Was that you waving at me, Sherlock? I know. You would probably say how wrong it is to stand here and mourn you. But I can't stop it._

**You know that I'll always be in love with you  
>Right til the end<strong>

Sebastian was still aiming at the window when he saw the smile on the doctor's face. _What's so funny? Are you enjoying this? Coz I clearly don't. _Seb had thought that both he and John were mourning; it had comforted him, knowing that the associate of the man who Seb felt was responsible for Jim's death was suffering just as much as he was. And now John was smiling. Seb so wished to put a bullet in his head right now that it hurt. Why didn't he do it? Because Jim had said so. Yet, as he already had found out, Jim wasn't there anymore to punish him. Jim was a dead body. Okay, he could decide to haunt him in his sleep, but really, as if Seb could sleep anytime soon. He could just now use his rifle and end John's life. And his own. They would all be reunited in hell. Or whatever the place was called. He would finally be able to speak to Jim again. But first things first. Shoot Watson. Then the old lady. Then maybe go and shoot Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, all those people that hadn't given shit about Jim when he was doing this IT nonsense. In the evenings, when Seb had informed Jim about what had happened all day long, Jim had told him that especially Donovan and Anderson had treated him like an inferior being. Just the IT guy, nothing more. Seb would love to pay them back. A bullet for each of them. Jim had only laughed; of course, these two weren't worth it. But Sebastian, who liked his boss, found it a terrible insult. Oh, and Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft had to die. And there, Seb would take his sweet time, inflict pain on Mycroft. He would make him scream. For every blow his henchman had delivered to sweet Jim's face, he would pay. It wouldn't bring Jim back. But Seb had to take the decisions now. Rule the empire the brilliant mind of James Moriarty had created out of thin air. Find a way to keep it strong. Seb realized he couldn't die.

**So tonight I'm gonna find a way to make it without you  
>Tonight I'm gonna find a way to make it without you<br>I'm gonna hold onto the times that we had  
>Tonight I'm gonna find a way to make it without you<strong>

John had noticed the movement in the house opposite his own. _Probably some homeless guy... _After all, he was a trained soldier, and not many things escaped his eyes. _Yeah, alright, Sherlock, many things do. I see, I don't observe. I had you for those things. Stop laughing. _He could literally hear Sherlock laughing. Like he had laughed in Buckingham Palace about Mycroft. John couldn't help but chuckle. Oh God, what a moment. What a case. The cases were great, but they were nothing compared to intimate moments like this. Of Sherlock in Dartmoor, when he had been so damn scared. _I don't get this, Sherlock. You were so scared of the damn dog, but never of Moriarty. Why not? If only you had been, you wouldn't have gone up there... No, of course you would have. Of course. You would have done it. You would have ended your own life at the pool to prevent him for killing more people. And I would have followed you. Just like I would have followed you up on that roof. How the hell could you think you could do this alone, Sherlock? That guy is... was... an insane son of a gun. Both of us couldn't take him down at the pool, so how the hell could you think you could do it alone? Why?_

**Anybody could have told you right from the start  
>It's bout fall apart<br>So rather than hold onto a broken dream  
>I'll just hold onto love <strong>

_Thought that was fun, right, Jim? Meeting the arrogant bastard up on the roof. Without me. Telling me to watch his little lapdog. For crying out loud, if I had been there, you and I would sit in your flat and celebrate our victory. You had to ruin it. You had to take him on all by yourself. You could survive Mycroft Holmes because you can take so much. Pain never broke you. But Sherlock Holmes... He was on your level, with this big, odd brain of his. You should have never gone up there alone... _Seb was glad that he was only thinking. Had he been talking, his voice would have broken by now. And those tears, those bloody tears. If he were to shoot Watson now, he would miss. But frankly, he didn't care anymore. He didn't care about anything. Not even revenge seemed so tempting anymore. He just wanted to go home, down some serious liquor and, if he was lucky, fall into the Thames. Let John Watson live. After all, if Watson felt anything like Seb right now, death would be a relief, and life the much bigger torture. So he got up and walked down the stairs. The rifle remained behind.  
><strong><br>And I can find a way to make it  
>Don't hold on too tight<br>I'll make it without you tonight**

John turned away from the window. Maybe he should try and get some sleep. He hesitated for a second, but then he walked through the livingroom and entered Sherlock's bedroom. The smell was back. It conforted him. For a second he remained standing in the doorframe, but then he walked inside, over to the bed. As he sat down on it, it almost felt like back when he had brought him up, back when Adler had drugged him. He smiled. He had been so worried back then. And now...? He ran his hand over the pillow, imagining for a second that he was running it to Sherlock's thick curls. Then he sighed. It would take so much time to get over this. But... he didn't know what had happened on the roof. But there was one thing he knew for sure: Sherlock wouldn't have wanted him there. He wanted John alive and kicking. And, to sit here and mourn for the rest of his life would be dishonouring the sacrifice Sherlock had made. It would be against his wishes. And John had no intention to ignore what was probably the last wish Sherlock had ever had. So he got up. "Okay, Sherlock. I don't want you to take this as an insult. I still don't want you to be dead. But I can't go on like this. You know it. I know it. I will still hope everyday I wake up that it was just a nightmare. But then I'll go on. I will go back to the hospital, help people. And, I will remind people that you are not a fraud, so that, if you decide to make a miracle happen, you can come back and people will still love you. I will. Forever."

**So tonight I'm gonna find a way to make it without you  
>Tonight I'm gonna find a way to make it without you<br>I'm gonna hold onto the times that we had  
>Tonight I'm gonna find a way to make it without you <strong>

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><p>Thanks for reading, ladies and gents. I hope you liked it. It's post Reichenbach, and I am still so very sad.<p> 


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